Nothing Mattered ... But Writing

There Was Nothing But Land; Not A Country At All, But The Material Out Of Which Countries Are Made.

If [the Writer] Achieves Anything Noble, Anything Enduring, It Must Be By Giving Himself Absolutely To His Material. And This Gift Of Sympathy Is His Great Gift; Is The Fine Thing In Him That Alone Can Make His Work Fine.

I Have Sometimes Thought That His Bursts Of Imaginative Talk Were Fatal To His Poetic Gift. He Squandered Too Much In The Heat Of Personal Communication.

Only Solitary Men Know The Full Joys Of Frienship. Others Have Their Family; But To A Solitary And An Exile, His Friends Are Everything.

The Qualities Of A Second-rate Writer Can Easily Be Defined, But A First-rate Writer Can Only Be Experienced. It Is Just The Thing In Him Which Escapes Analysis That Makes Him First-rate.